


A Time of Contempt

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Violence, Witcher 3 Rewrite, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24958423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the beginning, all Regis wanted was to find Geralt and make sure he was alright after the events of Stygga Castle. He did not expect to fall in love with Geralt and fight alongside him to defeat the Wild Hunt once and for all.Witcher 3 Rewrite.
Relationships: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 54
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone once posed the question "What would happen if Regis had been part of the base game and helped Geralt defeat the Wild Hunt?" and this is my biased answer.

“You are not fully recovered, Regis, you ought to reconsider,” said Dettlaff. “It has been six years since you last saw the witcher—”

Regis leant against a gravestone, ignoring the aches and pains in his newly reformed bones. The past few months he had taken to recovering in his cottage at Fen Carn, his old haunt near an elven graveyard. A nice sense of nostalgia, rebuilding his physical self in a place he had once hidden before destiny and Geralt of Rivia changed everything he thought he knew about the world and himself. It was fitting.

“Precisely, my friend. Six years. I have been gone from the world long enough. I ought to return to it and see for myself how much it has changed.”

“War and famine are all the same no matter what time period they occur in. If you wish to recover your full strength—”

“I’m afraid that was lost to me long ago when I gave up drinking blood. Dettlaff, I appreciate everything you have done for me, and I am indebted to you so deeply I have no idea how I will repay you, but this is something I _must_ do. You will not be able to persuade me from it.”

Folding his hands behind his back, Dettlaff looked on the verge of protesting. Their eyes met. He saw the steel in Regis’s black eyes and knew that this was not a matter that Regis could be persuaded out of. With or without Dettlaff’s approval, Regis would go.

“Fine. I will prepare more vials of blood for you for the road. Do not push yourself, Regis. You are not yet capable of achieving incorporeal form, and your claws are not yet fully grown in. If you run into danger, even a human peasant might prove to be a difficult foe to deal with.”

“You have my word I will not act foolishly. Thank you, my friend.”

“If I might be honest…I do not see why you concern yourselves with humans. They are fickle creatures that live short lives, like mayflies—and they annoying to boot.”

“If you met the friends that I made, although only Geralt and Jaskier must be alive now, then you would understand. It is cumbersome sometimes to coexist with them, but I find it no more troublesome than living with our own kind.”

The consternation on Dettlaff’s face proved that he did not agree with nor understand that sentiment. That was okay with Regis; only those who lived as he had among humans, treating them as equals and not intelligent livestock, could see what Regis did. He was an anomaly amongst his own kind and took pleasure in that. 

“Have you been keeping an eye on Geralt for me?” he asked, instead of pushing the matter. “Where is he? What has he been doing?”

“I have told you this—”

“Tell me again. Please.”

“He is in White Orchard with another witcher, an older one. They appear to be tracking someone down, a Yennefer of Vengerberg—I trust the name means something to you?”

“It does.” Regis inclined his head. “Please continue.”

“That is as far as I have managed to glean.”

“Then I ought to make haste.” Regis stood, dusting off his backside. “If I know anything about Geralt, it is that he doesn’t linger for long in one place. The Continent is massive. If I lose him now, I may not find him again for weeks or months.”

Dettlaff scoffed. “Humans are not so hard to track.”

“Yes, they are, but Geralt of Rivia is a witcher. That, my friend, makes all the difference in the world. Witchers hide their tracks well, even from us. They are a different breed of human, do not forget. Witchers and mages are only types of human to ever give us a proper challenge, though very rarely have they managed to kill us. Or have you forgotten Mariana after all this time?”

One of the first vampires to cross over after the Conjunction of the Spheres, Mariana was a higher vampire that had, much like Khagmar before her, been consumed with bloodlust. Unlike Khagmar, who had been imprisoned in Tesham Mutna for two centuries, and Regis, who had been hacked up and buried close enough to his severed body parts to regenerate after fifty years, Mariana had fallen afoul of a powerful mage. Normally higher vampires could overcome mages easily, but this one had the foresight to hack her to pieces and scatter every bit of herself across the Continent and lands beyond. After three hundred years, Mariana was still trying—and failing—to regenerate herself.

“I have not forgotten,” Dettlaff rumbled, puffing his chest out a little.

He had been one of the few Gharasham vampires who had petitioned to retrieve Mariana’s pieces, but had been overruled. No vampire tribe could intrude upon another tribe’s land without permission, and they had been firmly denied by both Ammurun and Tdet. And since more than a fair bit of Mariana’s body was located on their lands, forming her body from the pieces on Gharasham land was ruled to be a pointless endeavour. She would have to choose which pieces to reform her entire body from, and it would take her a lot longer than fifty years to do.

“But ‘proper challenge’ is not saying much,” Dettlaff continued. “Just a gnat that’s oversized for its kind. Annoying, but not difficult to deal with.”

Regis chuckled. “Say what you will. I’m well aware of that woman of yours in Toussaint. What’s her name? Rhiana?”

“Rhenawedd.”

“That’s the one. For someone who claims that humans are merely an annoyance, you’re quite taken with that one, don’t deny it.”

Dettlaff rumbled again but chose to say nothing. The pair of them looked out over the elven graveyard, silent. Regis allowed himself another moment to remember the last time he had been here. He smiled wistfully, turning to Dettlaff.

“I must prepare for the trip ahead,” he said. “Help me, old friend?”

“Of course. What would you like me to do?”

Within a matter of a day a horse had been procured for him—a rather humiliating way to travel for a higher vampire, but needs must, considering the circumstances—and his important belongings packed into a satchel that was tied to the saddlebags.

 _At least Dettlaff didn’t have to help me onto the horse,_ Regis thought. _I doubt I would have lived down such an embarrassment._

“Are you sure I cannot persuade you out of this?” Dettlaff asked one final time. “Wherever that witcher goes, death and destruction follow. He has already led you to your undoing once.”

“Geralt led me nowhere I did not want to go,” said Regis, with a hint of bite to his words, pushing back the memories of Vilgefortz as remnants of his icy terror shot through him like a lightning bolt. Time had not seen fit to fix these mental wounds of his. “And I will not be as careless as I was at Stygga Castle. Dettlaff, I understand that you’re worried and I appreciate the sentiment, but—”

“But you would wish I keep these fears to myself.” Dettlaff nodded once. “You show a great deal of tenacity when it comes to that witcher, more than I can recall from you even at the height of your blood addiction.”

Regis’s lips twitched in wry amusement. “I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, not a backhanded remark.” He cast a glance at the sky. It was a cloudless blue Spring morning, warm breeze fluttering through the trees, making them hum. Two birds were trilling from their nest, beside which one of Regis’s crows watched with its head cocked in almost pensive silence. “I should be getting on before the day is wasted. I have a lot of ground to cover.”

“Do not be afraid to contact me if you are in need of me. No matter the circumstances, I shall come to your aid at once.”

“I thank you.”

With that, there was nothing else to do but ride.

Days blurred as Regis rode on horseback. It was a dreadfully dull affair. He longed for the day he could mist anywhere he wished but doing so now would force his recovery back a few months. On the third day, he called down a crow.

 _Find me Geralt of Rivia,_ he told it, projecting an image of Geralt into its mind. Geralt was laughing in that memory, a bottle of moonshine in his hand. One of the rare nights where shrugged off the weight of the world and joined his friends in a night of drunken revelry. For all these years since it has been a balm to Regis’s wounded soul. _If he moves on from White Orchard, tell me. Find out where his destination is if you can. Fly well, dear friend._

The crow cawed and took to the sky. Regis watched until it was an inky black speck before he urged the horse onwards. There was too much ground to cover to remain stationary for too long. He ought to have summoned one of his crows earlier, he knew, but the thought had quite honestly slipped his mind.

His crows come back with a plethora of information each day. For at least a week, Geralt did not leave White Orchard; he had picked up a contract on a griffin near the main road alongside another witcher, gotten into a couple of fights with the local drunks, helped an old woman collect her frying pan from a dead man’s home, and assisted a dwarf in finding the pyromaniac who set fire to his forge. It was nice to know that Geralt had gotten on with his life after Stygga.

What interested Regis the most was that there was no mention of Cirilla or Yennefer. He sincerely hoped that after all the hell Geralt went through, he at least found his adoptive daughter, but all evidence the crows brought him pointed to the contrary. Or perhaps he had, and he was merely on the trail in search of someone else. Geralt wouldn’t be Geralt if he wasn’t embroiled in another mess.

Each day, Regis grew a little bit stronger. He was now able to mist short distances for practice, getting his ‘wings’ back as it were, and staying upright in the saddle for hours at a time was no longer an exhausting prospect.

He drank a vial of Dettlaff’s blood once a day to assist in his healing, feeling more and more of his former strength return to him. Even his hair, which had turned grey from the stress of regeneration, was regaining its former black colour. There could be no way of repaying Dettlaff for everything he had done, Regis was sure, but he was determined to one day find out how to do so.

Regis was just one day outside of White Orchard when a crow brought the news that Geralt had taken off with Yennefer and a troupe of soldiers in tow, the older witcher who had been accompanying Geralt going in the opposite direction. He cursed under his breath. So damn close! It was a miracle that Geralt had stayed in one place for so long. Foolish hope had allowed him to think that perhaps he could catch up with Geralt in time.

 _Do you have any knowledge about where they might be headed?_ He let the crow jump from his wrist to his shoulder with a caw. _Did they mention anything?_

The crow cawed again but no image swum into Regis’s mind. The bird had immediately left once it discovered that Geralt had moved on. Kept its distance and didn’t hear a single word from them about their destination. The nearest city to White Orchard was Vizima in the south-west, where Emperor Emhyr of Nilfgaard happened to be residing, and Ellander, where Prince Herevard the Second was, to the east. With Yennefer, a court mage, by Geralt’s side then travelling to either one of these locations was equally as likely. For all their bluster to the contrary, royals regularly needed the aid of a witcher.

If he attempted to check both locations then Geralt could and would disappear without a trace easily. He was like a higher vampire in that he was hard to track when he didn’t want to be found. Regis’s claws bit into the palms of his hands. He bit his tongue to avoid snapping at the crow for not staying and gathering more information. It was not for a bird to know what was important and what was not. He had asked it to retrieve information about Geralt’s location, and it had.

From the saddlebags he pulled out a strip of dried meat and broke a small section off to feed the bird, ignoring the small pinch of its beak nipping at the tips of his fingers.

 _I will continue on to White Orchard,_ he decided, as the crow took flight. _Surely someone will have overheard where Geralt is travelling to. The squadron of soldiers he departed with was too big to give him the element of privacy._

Confidence bolstered by his new plan, he set off again.

Not two hours later, he barrelled into a spot of trouble along the main road. A couple of ghouls were prowling around, attracted to the stench of corpses Regis had been smelling from a mile off. With a war raging across the land, necrophages were living in the lap of luxury, since people were dying faster than they could be properly buried.

The ghouls prowled around the edge of the forest but were starting to show a keen interest in Regis, who wrinkled his nose at them. The horse shook its head underneath him, snorting anxiously.

 _Should I take care of them?_ he wondered.

He spotted a small settlement not a few minutes away, a sea of makeshift tents of dirty white linen cloth propped up on sticks as far as he could see. They likely war refugees making camp for the night before continuing on to seek asylum.

The cries of children met his ears. Exhausted and underfed adults hurried around setting up camp. It was not quite mid-afternoon but from a glance Regis could tell they had likely been travelling since before dawn. Men in mismatched armour, likely scavenged from corpses, patrolled the area wielding chipped and rusty swords. They did not carry themselves like hardened soldiers but rather smallfolk who had the weight of their families lives thrust upon them in wartime.

None of those men would be able to take on a single necrophage, let alone two. But if they caught Regis, who did not look the part of a passing witcher thanks to the lack of cat eyes and the lack of swords strapped against his back, he did not doubt they would attack him mercilessly. Normal humans could not fight monsters such as them, and Regis would out himself as being as inhuman as they come. It mattered not to them whether he was friend or foe.

But if he did not take care of the necrophages, they would undoubtedly tire of waiting for people to die; they would go up to the camp and cut down anyone they came across. Wartime had savaged them even more, bolstering their confidence. There was nowhere they wouldn’t go now to find a new feast.

One of the ghouls caught sight of him. It perked up its rotted head on its thin, mottled neck and screamed, as if daring him to come closer. Regis clenched his hands into fists, indecisive for all of a moment, and then swung off his horse with a muttered curse. Danger of getting outed as a monster or not, he could not stand by and risk the lives of innocents because he was _scared_.

The ghouls scented the challenge. Hungry for the kill, they heeded not the danger. Casting one more glance at the camp, Regis sighed and hoped it wouldn’t—to quote Geralt, once upon a time—go completely to shit. Regis heard the thunder of an approaching horse but ignored it, slapping his horse’s rump. The horse screamed, reared, and took off. The first ghoul charged him, the second swerved around to come at him from the back.

A whistle of wind. The ghoul in front of him screamed and staggered sideways, a knife embedded deep its skull. It was not silver and thus it did not kill it. The ghoul recovered in seconds, enough time for Regis to spin and kick the second ghoul in the face and drive it back.

“You’re either brave to the point of stupidity, or you’ve got a death wish,” said his rescuer over the loud whinny of his horse, his voice deep and hoarse. He stepped lightly in front of Regis, carrying a pair of swords on his back. A witcher. “Get back before you’re bitten. There are nicer ways to commit suicide.”

This witcher was old with greying hair and lines around his face, but when he moved, young men would envy him his vigour. The ghouls did not stand a chance. In less than ten practiced moves, the witcher killed both of them effortlessly, managing to keep them away from Regis altogether. Regis was impressed. He had seen Geralt in action many a time, wondering whether anyone could hope to match him. This witcher put even Geralt to shame.

“You’re still here?” The witcher eyed him curiously. “Got a strong stomach for gore, I take it?”

“As a barber-surgeon, I would hope so, Master Witcher.” Regis bowed.

The witcher scoffed, pulling out a plain black kerchief from inside of his armour to wipe the viscera off his sword. “Vesemir will do just fine, none of this ‘Master Witcher’ nonsense.”

“ _Vesemir_?”

“Did I stutter, boy?”

“I—no, my apologies. But you are from the School of the Wolf, Kaer Morhen?”

“Indeed, I am,” Vesemir said slowly, his words laced with suspicion. “I take it you know me? I don’t recall ever meeting you before.”

“No, I’m afraid we haven’t had the pleasure.” Regis stuck out his hand, which Vesemir shook with such a firm grip that he would have broken quite a few bones easily if Regis had been human. “Emiel Regis, barber-surgeon. Call me Regis, please. I am a long-time friend of Geralt of Rivia, and I have been searching for him for weeks. You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s headed, would you?”

“Friend of Geralt’s, aye? I take it you expect me to believe you based on your word alone?”

“Not at all. But I was travelling with him during Nilfgaard’s invasion six years ago. We got…separated for a while. Due to unfortunate circumstances neither of us could have predicted.”

“Six years, and you’re only choosing now to find him?”

“I was incapacitated. Severely. Only now have I gathered enough strength to…hit the road, as the saying goes.” Gripping the strap of his satchel tight, Regis bit back his frustration. It seemed that caution and suspicion were a witcher’s bread and butter. “I wish Geralt no harm, Vesemir.”

Vesemir snorted. “I’ve heard that more than once. But I have a discerning eye, Regis, and you don’t look the nefarious type.” He put a couple fingers in his mouth and whistled. After a few seconds, Regis heard Vesemir’s horse approaching. It came to stop by his side. “He rode to Vizima to have an audience with Emperor Emhyr.”

“Thank you.”

“You might have difficulty getting past the guards at Vizima’s gates, however.” Vesemir climbed on top of the horse and grabbed the reins. “They’re stopping refugees by the hundreds. Soldiers, witchers, and refugees with appropriate permits are the only ones allowed into the city.”

“That won’t be a problem. Thank you, Vesemir. Won’t you be needing a trophy from these ghouls?”

“No contract taken out on them, so they’re worthless. You’ll come to find that there are simply too many monsters roaming the world. The people they plague simply have too little coin to spare, for what they can spare has already been taken as a tax to fund the war effort. Take care of yourself, Regis.”

“I will. Good luck on the path, Vesemir, and thank you.”

Vesemir nodded, dug his heels into the sides of his horse, and galloped off.

For a long moment, Regis pondered whether or not he should cut apart the ghouls for their useful parts. He quickly dismissed that thought, called over his own horse, and rode off. He couldn’t afford to waste any time.

He rode his horse near to its breaking point to get him to Vizima quickly. It was there that he saw the true devastation of the war.

Hundreds of refugees were crowded on the bridge clutching each other and the remains of their livelihood. There were carts laden with barrels, boxes, sacks, and other odds and ends. The forty-odd soldiers manning the gates were armed to the teeth. Regis gathered his strength and turned into black mist, easily mistaken for smoke from a fire, and weaved between the people.

“Please, sir!” a man was begging as Regis reached the front. “I have a wife and child, sir, and another on the way. We haven’t anywhere else to go!”

“You haven’t got the proper permit,” the guard droned on without deigning to look at the terrified young family. He had a quill in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “Only those with the proper permit are allowed into the city gates.”

The man howled and lunged for the guard. “How can you be such heartless bastards?!”

“Donny!” cried his wife at the same time as the little girl at her feet shrieked, “Daddy!”

Another guard intercepted Donny with a curse. He was thrown over the edge of the bridge to plunge into the icy cold water below. The women screamed, grabbed her daughter, and waddled off the bridge as fast as her heavily pregnant belly would allow her to go. The little girl left her dolly behind.

 _When war comes,_ thought Regis angrily, _compassion and morality are the first to die_.

He flew through the city until he came to a suitable alleyway to turn back into, far enough away from the gates he wasn’t risking being seen. At once, he felt woozy, and threw a hand out to catch himself on the slimy brick wall before he could fall. Perhaps misting for so long had not been such a good idea.

The royal palace of Vizima was the tallest and most ostentatious building in the city, which wasn’t saying much considering the dreary, dark streets. Depending on where the sun shone, the stained glass windows glinted. If anything, there were more guards surrounding the palace than at the gates.

Regis stepped neatly into another alley and called down another crow.

 _Show me where Geralt of Rivia is,_ he told it, pushing an image of Geralt into its mind. It cawed and reared back, flapping its wings at the intrusion. _Tell me how to find him_.

The bird whipped away in a rustle of feathers. It returned fifteen minutes later. From its brain, Regis pulled the image of Geralt walking out of a room in the palace adjusting his swords on his back. He didn’t have the look of a man who’d taken them off for carnal pleasure, rather that of a man who’d love to run his sword through someone’s neck. Regis’s lips twitched. That was Geralt’s ‘I fucking hate royalty’ face.

_“Will that be all for the gentleman?” asks a pompous man in a thick Nilfgaardian accent. He holds his hands behind his back, all puffed out like a proud peacock._

_“Yeah, just point me to the nearest exit.”_

_“I will show you. Follow me.”_

_Behind the pompous man’s back, Geralt rolls his eyes heavenward._

The image faded.

“Thank you,” said Regis. “Fly well, my friend.”

The palace was hidden behind yet another defensive wall where the only way in or out was through the heavily-guarded portcullis. Regis sighed and hopped atop a barrel, swinging his satchel onto his lap under the pretence of sorting out its contents, so as to not draw suspicion from the guards, who, from the way they were shuffling restlessly about, would jump on any chance for a brawl. Minutes passed.

“Raise the gates!” someone shouted finally.

Regis looked up as the portcullis gates raised with guttural groan. Through the throng of people, he spied a flash of white-blond hair.

All at once, nerves hit Regis like a punch to the gut. How would Geralt react to seeing him after all these years? He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to watch a friend die only to have them come back over half a decade later. Would Geralt be pleased, or draw his swords on Regis?

Only one way to find out.

“Fucking royals,” Geralt was muttering, storming through the courtyard, clenching his hands into fists repeatedly. If he had looked like he wanted to jam his swords into someone’s throat in the crow’s memory, it was nothing compared to now. Regis jumped off the barrel and hurried to intercept him. “Fucking pompous pieces of…shit…”

Regis grabbed the strap of his satchel. For a long moment neither of them could do anything except stare at each other. A myriad of emotions flashed over Geralt’s face. Memories of a different time, a different war, flitted between them like ghosts.

“R-Regis…is that…”

“Hello, Geralt.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on the last chapter! I could not believe what a reception it had.

Once upon a time, Regis had read the words “time stood still” in a romance book he had bought out of curiosity for two crowns and found that statement to be profoundly stupid. Time stood still for no one, not even the immortal. It did not wait, bend, break, or stop entirely. Time was time, running smoothly like water, relentless, and uncaring. It didn’t make sense. Until now.

The world carried on without Regis and Geralt. People threw them disgruntled looks for having stopped dead in the courtyard. Geralt had changed from the scars on his face to the way he held himself. There was a confidence there that had been missing all those years ago.

“Go ter a fuckin’ pub if ye wanna be lazy layabouts!” snarled a passing merchant, shoving past Geralt carrying a heavy crate. “Get the fuck outta the way.”

Time resumed.

Geralt stepped forward, enveloping Regis in a hug. “Is that really you, Regis? But I saw you—Vilgefortz did—how could you have—”

Even his scent was the same. He smelled of herbs from his potions, leather from his armour, a faint twang of his horse, and a faint trace of sweat. It filled Regis’s nostrils, and something deep inside him relaxed for the first time since his awareness had returned in the first few baby steps of regeneration.

“It’s really me. Come, dear witcher, I shall explain all to you.” Regis turned away, only for Geralt to seize his wrist and pull him back. “Geralt?” In answer, Geralt pulled out a silver knife, casting a wary glance around to make sure no one was watching. Regis smiled tolerantly. “To see whether I am a doppler impersonating myself?”

“Can’t be too certain. Higher vampires are immune to the effects of silver, but a doppler isn’t, no matter what form it takes.” Geralt pressed the knife to the palm of Regis’s hand. Nothing happened. Satisfied, Geralt slipped the knife back into its sheath. “I can’t believe it’s you, after all this time…”

“I certainly did not expect to be back quite so soon,” Regis admitted. “Let us find a tavern where we might indulge in a stiff drink, and I shall tell you all of what has happened since the last time we saw each other.”

To Regis’s amusement, Geralt only appeared to notice he still had hold of Regis at that very moment when he looked down to see what he was holding. He let go as if scalded. Witchers may very well be incapable of blushing, but they weren’t immune to a fast pulse and racing blood, both of which Regis could hear.

“Yeah, uh, let’s go,” Geralt muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “Happen to know a couple of good taverns in the area.”

Regis pivoted to the side and swept an arm out behind him. “Lead the way.”

It did not escape Regis’s notice that although they walked in silence, Geralt could not stop glancing at him, as if waiting for him to disappear and become a figment of the imagination. The feeling was mutual; Regis hadn’t expected to regenerate so soon.

When a washerwoman passed with a basket of laundry to take down to the river, she was so preoccupied with keeping all the clothes inside that she would have bumped into Regis had Geralt not grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him aside. They were close now, remarkably close, almost pressed against one another. Regis blinked in shock.

“Watch yourself,” Geralt mumbled, releasing Regis as he stepped back. “The tavern’s just around the corner.”

“Yes, I…” Words, for once, failed Regis entirely. “Mm.”

The tavern was dimly lit, the lone window behind the bar unable to catch the afternoon sun. Regis’s eyes adjusted in seconds. A dozen tables went unoccupied, the few that were harboured drunks and a couple of dead-eyed soldiers. It was so quiet that the drop of a pin would sound like an explosion. The serving woman remained behind the counter, unneeded.

“Lovely place,” Geralt muttered, leading them to a nearby table. One of the drunks slipped off the table and fell to the floor as the chair Geralt pulled out scraped against the floorboards and scared him. The barkeep clicked his tongue at the drunk but didn’t dare move to throw him out.

“Indeed. It seems that no one has been able to go unaffected by the war.” Regis took his chair out with more care, flagging down the serving woman who hurried out to join them, appearing grateful to have something to do. After ordering ales and stew for them both, Regis turned back to Geralt and—found he had nothing to say.

Anyone who knew Regis well enough would know how big of a deal that was. Regis was aware that he was loquacious. He had an inquisitive nature coupled with a lack of shyness that was abnormal, for the lack of a better word, for higher vampires. If left unchecked he could talk off an ear. But now, here, with Geralt after six long and gruelling years of regeneration, his mind and mouth failed him.

Geralt’s lips quirked up. “You good, Regis?”

“I—yes, I am good. Forgive me, Geralt. Processing.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it. No offense, but you’re the last person I ever expected to see after meeting with Emhyr. Or at all. How are you still alive? I saw—”

“A bloody smear on the floor, yes. That would be enough to convince anyone that I was dead. I see the guilt in your eyes, Geralt. There is no blame for you to take.”

Geralt shifted in his chair. The guilty expression on his face did not fade.

“Higher vampires,” Regis continued, lowering his voice so as not to be heard by the other patrons, “are capable of regenerating as long as there is enough of their physical body remaining. It is impossible to kill them unless another higher vampire commits the deed—which would make them anathema in the eyes of vampire society. Not something any of us wish to do.”

“Anathema?”

“An outcast. About as useful and wanted as, say, a herding dog with no remaining limbs to carry out his work. Something to be pitied, and a warning to all other vampires who get it into their heads to commit the highest offense. Anathema are no longer protected by the vampiric version of municipal law and are hunted.”

Massaging his temples as if to ease all that information through, Geralt said, “So you regenerated? I had no idea higher vampires could regenerate so fast. Not that I’ve fought a higher vampire before—many of my witcher brethren hadn’t either. The books at Kaer Morhen on you lot were non-existent.”

“Had I been left to regenerate on my own, you would have long be dust in your grave. No, I had help to speed the process along. Dettlaff, a very dear friend of mine, found me in Stygga and helped me by giving me his own blood.”

“Blood? Wouldn’t that have—”

“Caused me to relapse? No. The chemical composition of our blood—that is, human and vampiric blood—is much different, so much so that it erased all concerns about awakening the, uh, monster side of me. There is no cause for concern, dear witcher, I remain in control of all my faculties.”

“That’s good.” Geralt’s lips curled into a soft, relieved smile. “I’m glad.”

“Indeed, I am as well. If I had developed an addiction to vampiric blood as well, it would have been truly unfortunate. The blood of another higher vampire is the only thing capable of helping speed the process of regeneration along.”

“Here you are, sirs,” said the serving woman, returning to the table with their stew and ales. Realising how close he and Geralt were, practically leaning over the table, Regis drew back and hid his nervous cough behind his hand. “If you be needing anything else, just give me a holler and I’ll come right back.”

“Oi, serving wench!” called one of the drunk men, waving his cup over his head. “More ale!”

She sighed. “Coming right up, Nathaniel.”

Geralt immediately dug into the stew, attacking it with all the fervour of a man who hadn’t eaten for a long time.

“If I may ask,” said Regis, contenting himself to stirring the stew around his bowl with the spoon, “why was Emperor Emhyr interested in talking to you in the first place? New contract?”

“Kind of. It’s Ciri. He wants me to find her. She’s apparently come back.”

“Come back?” Regis frowned. “I thought you both had reunited at Stygga? Could have sworn, unless my memory is still as hazy as it was in the first few months of my regeneration, that I had seen her there. Gave her quite the fright too when she saw me in my bestial form.” His stomach writhed guiltily. He had never managed to apologise appropriately for startling her so.

“No, I found her there, but…well.” Geralt’s face darkened, haunted by memories long past. “A lot happened between then and now. Sorry, Regis, but I don’t really want to get into it. Not now, at least.”

Whatever happened to Geralt after Stygga must have been terrible, Regis thought worriedly. Not for the first time he lamented that he hadn’t been able to be there, to help Geralt or protect him. It was hard not to feel as if he had failed his friend, as ridiculous as the notion was. No one could have expected that he, Regis, would have been melted down as he had.

“No need to apologise, Geralt,” he said softly. “I understand.”

Geralt shot him a grateful look. “Anyway, she disappeared again. Haven’t seen her since. Now Emhyr’s sources claim that she’s returned—and caused quite a bit of magical commotion, too. Emhyr’s paying me to find her and bring her back to him.”

One of the drunkards yelled suddenly. Regis turned in his chair in time to spot the man slipping off his stool, much to the amusement of his drinking companion who burst into laughter—until the man who had fallen accidentally kicked the table over. Cups of ale spilled across the floor, and into it fell the stack of Gwent cards they had been playing with, ruining them. The second drunkard leapt to his feet in a fury, yelling slurred cuss words.

“Now, now!” the tavern owner cried, a little mousy man with a balding head and a carefully trimmed handlebar moustache. He was a good foot shorter than both other men. “There’s no need to fight—you can both have another round on the house, how’s that, eh? And we have a spare deck of Gwent cards you may borrow!”

Regis turned away from the spectacle the moment it appeared the drunkards were appeased by the prospect of free drinks. Sitting back in his chair, Geralt sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Always the same,” he murmured.

“Getting back on track,” said Regis over the clamour of the tavern owner righting his furniture. “I find it quite amusing that a man such as yourself who wants no part in court politics and the like keeps finding himself embroiled neck-deep in it.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Any time I tell myself I’ve washed my hands of all this crap, some other leader needs my help. Sooner or later I’ll have to change my profession and take up a spot at a royal court.”

“You would suit the role of a court jester quite nicely, indeed,” said Regis, grinning at Geralt’s responding glare. “Merely joking. Have you any clue where to start looking?”

“A merchant named Hendrik in Heatherton. If I’m going to start looking anywhere, it’ll have to be there.” Geralt lowered his voice further but Regis had no problem hearing him. “He’s a spy that’s working for Emhyr, sending back any information he’s gathered on Ciri’s whereabouts. If anyone should know, it would be him.”

“Then perhaps I can help you?” asked Regis. “I have nowhere else to go, nothing better to do.”

“As much as I’d love to, there’s one other thing I haven’t told you.”

“Which is?” Regis picked up his spoon and ate his first bite of stew. The meat was chewy and the cook had been liberal with his use of salt.

“The Wild Hunt is after her.”

Regis dropped his spoon with a clatter, his brows shooting up in disbelief. “The spectral army is after Cirilla? Whatever for?”

Geralt did not speak, rather he mouthed ‘Elder Blood’ and Regis understood at once. The blood of the elder races was a powerful force capable of causing mass destruction effortlessly in the wrong hands. The Wild Hunt could only be after Cirilla to weaponise her for their own ends.

It was both remarkable and almost predictable that Geralt had gotten himself caught in their crosshairs by way of affiliation with Cirilla. There was to be nothing that happened on the Continent, it seemed, without Geralt’s involvement to some degree.

Regis himself had heard of the Wild Hunt many times, though he had never seen them in all his years. Human folk were a superstitious lot, and it was said that whenever a storm blew through, the Hunt would be riding past. They were also an omen of war. That was the extent of his knowledge about them.

And they were after Cirilla, Geralt’s pseudo-daughter.

“Well that settles the matter,” said Regis. “I shall come with you. The Wild Hunt is nothing to scoff at. They could be more than a match even for you, Geralt.”

“I know, but I don’t want to force you into—”

“You’re not forcing me into anything.” Noticing that Geralt’s bowl was empty, Regis shoved his own toward him, telling Geralt with a wordless flick of his head that it was okay for him to eat Regis’s own portion as well. “I have chosen for myself.”

Geralt tucked into his second bowl immediately. “In that case I’ll be glad for the help. Who knows? Maybe the Wild Hunt will meet their match in a higher vampire.”

 _Or maybe I will meet my match in them,_ thought Regis with a shiver of old fear. Six years had taught him not to underestimate his opponent and overestimate his abilities. The knowledge that Vilgefortz of Roggeveen was dead still came as quite a relief.

* * *

After spending so long inside that dreary tavern, the afternoon sun was almost too bright even for Regis’s eyes. Beside him, Geralt was shading his own eyes from the light, cursing under his breath.

“I will need to find where I tied up my horse,” he said, realising he had been so fixated on finding Geralt that he had forgotten where outside the gates he had tied the animal up. “I do hope no one has decided to steal her. She is a lovely horse.”

“Do you have a letter of safe conduct?”

“Safe conduct? That is the permit they are demanding everyone has, correct?” At Geralt’s nod, Regis scoffed. “I won’t be needing one.”

“Oh right, you can just do your little trick.” Geralt clicked his fingers a few times, as if trying to summon the words into his brain. “The fog thing.”

Regis shot him a wry look. “Yes, my ‘fog thing.’ Comes in handy every now and again.”

“Pity the smallfolk don’t have it. Would be doing them a lot of good right about now.”

Remembering how Donny’s family had screamed as he was thrown over the bridge to meet his fate in the icy cold water below, Regis murmured, “Indeed. I would imagine a lot of things would be quite different. Where have you tied up Roach?”

“Handed her over to a stableboy.”

“Good. You go retrieve Roach, and I shall go locate my horse. I will meet you outside the city gates.”

He misted away.

The gates were still closed, still seething with anxious refugees, as he passed them by. In the time it took him to slink across the bridge, he saw that Donny was far from the only person to have been thrown over. And he was far from the only man whose wife was pregnant with child. Still, the soldiers showed no mercy. No permit, no entry.

As it turned out, he had tied his horse up to a tree deep enough into the forest surrounding the city that no one had found her. She nickered, pleased to see him, and he permitted himself a moment to rub her muzzle. If Geralt had any horse treats—which, considering how much Geralt loved his horse, was safe to assume that he did—he would have to borrow one for his own horse for being so patient.

The hoarse cry of a crow caught his attention and he looked up. The bird was waiting patiently on the branch of an elm tree, cocking its head this way and that. It wanted to know if he needed it.

 _If I can get it to scout Heatherton,_ he thought, sticking an arm up. It rustled its feathers and flew down to land on his wrist, _then we will be better prepared for what awaits us there than simply going in blind._

He told the bird what he wanted from it. It croaked again, an assent this time, and flew away.

There was a flicker of something across the bond he shared with Dettlaff for the first time in weeks. An edge of concern, a question. Regis closed his eyes and concentrated, letting Dettlaff feel his peace. _I am well, my friend. I have reached my destination._ He projected an image of himself and Geralt talking in the tavern.

Dettlaff sent back a ripple of approval, then ducked out of the bond. He was not a vampire of many words, and Regis had learned a long time ago not to be offended by it. If Dettlaff had nothing to say, then he simply said nothing at all.

He untied his horse from the tree and swung up into the saddle, digging his heels lightly into her side. Geralt was waiting for him at the foot of the bridge, ignoring a few people who were hissing and snarling at him in hatred.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Yes. I have sent a crow ahead to scout the area of Heatherton. If anything has decided to lay in wait for us, we shall know if it long before we arrive.”

Geralt eyed him approvingly. “Good idea. Let’s go.”

They set out for Heatherton side by side, their moods bolstered by their plans in such a way that it felt as if they had gone back in time, and those six years apart had never come to pass.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates should hopefully come once a week. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it. Comments help productivity.


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